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“What’s got you so amused?”
“You’re never going to believe who I just saw walking into the Mr. Walker’s office.”
I rack my brain for an answer but come up short.
“Yeah, probably not, but by the way you’re grinning, I’d have to say the prince of a large country.”
“Close.” She giggles.
“Spit it out. I don’t have all day here.” I motion to the pile of papers on my desk. It’s a mess, but I work better this way. “I do have work to do, so don’t do that thing you do. Just tell me.”
She grins. “You ready?”
I roll my eyes. “Jeez. Mara. Come on,” I whisper-shout, not wanting the whole office to hear but wanting to know, nonetheless.
“Cain Archer.”
“What?”
All of a sudden, it feels like I’m swimming underwater. My hearing becomes muffled. She couldn’t possibly have just said Cain is here, could she?
“Are you sure it’s him?” I whisper.
“I’m not a complete idiot, Layla.”
“Obviously, I know that. I just—”
“I know.” She’s my closest friend. Of course, she knows how my distance, leaving him, and the rejection have affected me. “It’s him. And something tells me he’s here because of your article or maybe because of you, so I wanted to give you a heads-up so that you were prepared when he rounds the corner in a few minutes.”
“You don’t know that he’s here for me.”
“A recluse architect who never gives interviews shows up at a magazine, and you don’t think it’s about your article or you?” She has a point.
He’s here for me or, at the very least, for what I wrote. My heart hammers in my chest. It feels like a stampede of elephants is running amok.
I will it to calm down, but there is no calming down this torrent of emotions grappling inside me.
Did he hate the article?
Did he even see the article?
That would be a gross violation of Mr. Walker’s journalism ethics if he showed it to Cain, but unfortunately, my boss does what he wants regardless of what’s right and wrong, so I have to assume that’s why Cain came.
I’m so confused, and I could try to figure out the reason he’s here and torment myself with all the what-ifs and the whys, but the truth is, the only way I’m getting an answer is when he comes out here and tells me.
A strange, nervous energy cycles through my body, and I feel my knees shake. How long do I have to wait?
I catch my reflection on the computer screen, and I’m thankful that today, unlike last week, or the week before, I took the time to make sure I looked professional and at my best.
I try to concentrate on the article in front of me. I try to focus on work, but instead, I’m really watching the archway where the hall connects with the management offices.
I remain at my desk, and then I see them. My boss and Cain are rounding the corner.
Mr. Walker makes it outside my cubicle, and Cain is standing behind him with a grin teasing his lips.
I move to a standing position, and I catch Cain’s eyes as he sweeps them down my body again.
Thank God I cared about my appearance today.
“Layla,” my boss says, and I peel my gaze off Cain and look at Mr. Walker.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Archer is here to see if you have any more questions for him before you finalize the article. I have let him know that you are at his disposal and vice versa until you feel you have enough information to write the end of it.”
“Can we go somewhere quieter to talk?” Cain asks.
I bite my lip, my mouth still parched from his unexpected arrival.
“After you,” he says, and I grab my purse from the bottom desk drawer and walk us to the nearest elevator.
We wait in silence for it to arrive, and then when it does, it’s jam-packed, so we’re still unable to speak.
Once we’re in the lobby together, we maneuver toward the exit. Luckily, it’s not busy at this time of day, so it only takes a few seconds before we step outside into the New York City air. The temperature outside is staggering compared to the buildings near arctic air-conditioning. Goose bumps break out against my skin the way it does when you spike a fever.
Sure, it’s from the weather . . .
It has nothing to do with the fact that Cain is here in New York City. Standing next to me in broad daylight. Nope. Nothing.
We continue to walk, my heels clacking on the pavement as I try to keep pace with him. We pass a hot dog vendor on the way, and the fragrance wafting off the cart makes my stomach feel queasy.
Definitely nerves.
I can’t ignore the way my blood pumps faster the farther we walk.
Why is he here?
By the time Cain points at a small café, it feels like my heart will explode. “Here,” he says, and I raise a brow. “It’s great and quiet.”
